


Ouroboros

by orphan_account



Category: Muse
Genre: Drug Use, Feels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:56:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since Dominic moved to Oregon, he'd been alone. And he was okay without. It wasn't until a chance encounter with eclectic, eccentric Matt made him realize just how much he needed someone. But unknowingly falling hard and falling fast can lead to destruction, especially when Dominic realizes just how severe Matthew's insomnia is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ouroboros

This is a story about a man, or a dream. A fantasy, maybe, thought up by a lonely mind in a lonely town hours or weeks ago. I don’t know, the details are a bit fuzzy. Truth is, I’m not entirely sure if this story is fact or fiction, the truth or yet another neon sign pointing towards a surefire fall into madness. What I am sure of is that somehow, one way or another, my life was changed. 

Like all good stories, and good is said with a shade of derision, there is a beginning. I’ll try not to bother with the technicalities. I’ve never been the biggest fan of feeding someone the imagery; it’s something you ought to be able to do for yourself. That is what creativity is for. Details will slip in every so often, though. I still have tendencies of falling back to my inner loquacious self, even in my old age. 

Possibly a few of decades ago, I was graduating with a double major in English and art therapy, a minor in the study of languages. The university isn’t important, but at the time I was living in the northern part of Oregon, the furthest distance I’d been from Nova Scotia. I was in my mid-20s, older than most of the attending students, and I kept to myself for the most part. The _why_ isn’t important; all that matters is that I had, and still do have, the utmost aversion to the majority of society. For the sake of time, the conversation that could be bred from that shall be saved for another day. 

It was raining the day I met him. I truly do hate to jump straight into it without a moment’s notice, but I feel that if I’m not careful, my mind will take whatever opportunity that even peeks in my direction to not finish writing this. I can’t quite put my finger on the motive, but my subconscious has no desire to delve into these memories. 

But yes, it was raining. The clouds above had shown no mercy, their mouths ripped open and spitting out their torrent. Water spilled over the sidewalk, the gutter drowning beneath the waves, and heavy droplets spattered against the overhead awning of the sidewalk café I was huddled against. It was early afternoon, the sun fleeing from its vigilant perch. It was raining, and it was beautiful. 

Beautiful in the sense that, despite several people running to various coverings or squeezing underneath that morning’s newspaper, the world was silent. It was as if, for those few moments, even God dared not to breathe. The pattering of the raindrops, the rush and howl of the wind – those things did nothing more but broaden the infinite echo of silence and curve it around to reflect the beauty of nature. 

I continued to lean against the stone wall, the owner of the café stepping out beside me. He was a quiet man, like myself, and wordlessly understood the pleasure one can get from a rainstorm. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he nodded at me, his smile hidden behind the mass of his white beard. Pulling a cigar from his coat pocket, he lit it and matched my position. We stood together in peace, neither one of us feeling the need to disrupt the quiet.

Tiny rivulets darted in tight streams off the edge of the awning, the rain coming down so hard there was practically no break in the flow. It gave the illusion we were trapped behind some strange, gravitationally impossible cage, the liquid bars thin and ever-changing. I fancied myself off on some distant earth where such things were feasible. How wondrous that would be, to wake up every morning in a place where the inconceivable and preposterous were within our reach, where we could shift the universe on a whim, shape the world into a reflection of our dreams.

The rain started to lessen some, dwindling down to a drizzle, its intensity gone almost as fast as it appeared. The thunderous roar of colliding clouds clashed near the horizon , and I felt it safe to venture away from my shelter and resume my walk home. I gave a quick nod to my silent partner and pushed myself away from the wall, the after-rain scent I was so very fond of immediately permeating my senses when I took a heavy step off the curb. Water splashed up around my pant legs and I sighed inwardly, the feeling of wet denim against skin making me uncomfortable.

I trudged on, the water invading my shoes. After a couple of seconds I gave up my attempts on dodging the puddles; It was too much of a moot point when they were practically everywhere. I could see the hazy stretch of pale grey falling on its next target, the rain so thick it looked just like the cloud it fell from. The sky seemed all but white, the only color coming from the vivid streak of a rainbow striping its way in a segmented arch across the eastern sky. I smiled softly to myself, veins of childlike joy still spreading despite my age. 

As I rounded the corner, my house only a block away, I caught sight of a startlingly bright shade of yellow in my peripheral. Almost immediately, a bout of laughter came from the same direction, two high-pitched giggles riding on separate frequencies and disrupting my valued after-the-thunder silence. I halted mid-step, looking to see the source of such inharmonious glee. 

On the corner opposite mine stood a pair of young women, one in a sundress – irony, yes? – and the other in simple jeans and a t-shirt. Before them was a third party, a man seemingly close to my age, older by no more than a few years. I could tell even from my position he was short on sleep, the heavy bags under his eyes an immediate give away. What was most prominent about him was the audaciously sunny, loose yellow shirt he wore, the color striking against his fair skin. I envied him for a brief second. I’ve always had the biggest inability to make yellow look good on me; this man did so flawlessly. Where I looked sallow, he looked alive. 

The two ladies spoke with him for another minute or so before shaking hands and turning to cross the street, and merely an inhale later I was once again caught off guard. Without their bodies to shield him, new details emerged and I was, without a doubt, confounded by the bucket of lemons resting before his feet. On his shirt, letters spelled out in large, black font “L-I-F-E.” I couldn’t decide if the pieces were clicking together in the right place or if I was missing part of a larger whole, and my inability to process this new information caused me to stare quite a bit longer than I’d initially intended.

Within minutes, his eyes flickered away from where they had been and landed on me, humor rising up at my ogling. The sudden contact woke me from my stupor and I shook my head, my curiosity demanding I walk towards him and ask why he was standing on the corner of a sidewalk with lemons, the sky misting around us and frosting his dark hair with tiny droplets of precipitation. 

Of course, my body chose to propel itself forward before my brain could fully process anything. Within a smattering of seconds I was face-to-face with a pair of the most beautifully stained eyes I’ve ever seen. 

My _God_ they were blue. 

I thankfully regained enough control over myself in time to stop the verbal diarrhea that was threatening to spew out. Instead, I took to dumbly watching – in all fairness it’s difficult to register simple actions while submerged as deeply as I was in those things – as he tilted his head gently to the right, unblinking with a slow, open-mouthed and confused smirk. 

After a few seconds of outright staring, I remembered it was customary to actually speak when you’re eying someone as heavily as I was and in such proximity. He must’ve sensed I was about to though, seeing as the moment my mouth opened to let out a singular greeting, his own beat me to it. 

“How’s it going?” Came the unhurried drawl, his voice airy and low. 

“You have a bucket of lemons.” My words came out quite the opposite of his in a long, rushed stream of _whatthefuck_. One of the advantages of standing less than a couple of feet away from him was that I could see he had a small scar, just less than the width of my thumbnail, on the left side of his face. He had two pale beauty marks asymmetrically placed on both cheekbones, and when the corners of his mouth lifted further and deepened their uneven curve, a dimple appeared.  
“That’s an excellent observation. I also have two left feet and a pair of tits.” 

I snorted, my hands finding comfort in my jeans’ pockets. “And to think I wasn’t interested by your appearance enough already.” 

Grinning, he shifted his weight to his right foot, his arms crossing. I noticed gooseflesh rise on his skin and a suppressed shiver when the wind picked up. He nodded to the bucket at his feet, his hands slipping into the warmth of his armpits. “I’m uhm…I dunno, handing out lemons.” 

“Ah…may I ask why?” I inquired further despite the fact I’d already put two and two together. I was simply curious if his explanation was anything different. 

The wind died down again, sunlight bleeding through a singular crack in the continuous white expanse above our heads. It shone at a spot just left of where we stood, the shadow of a bird passing through the circle of light just before it faded away. A car cruised by, the muffled noise of some band vibrating the windows. 

“Sure you can.” His voice was cheery and songlike, his smile infectious, the corners of my mouth lifting in return. Without waiting for a reply, he went on. “I was bored this morning.” He shrugged with one narrow shoulder, “felt this town could lighten up a little with a bit of metaphor. Make some lemonade out of life’s lemons, and what-not. You’d be surprised how many days were brightened this morning, at least that’s what they told me. Some guy gave me a hug for the mood lifter. Apparently his girlfriend had like, literally just broken up with him. I might start doing this more often, now that I actually think about it. I’m rambling, sorry. I just downed a Red Bull and I’m not used to the charge of energy. I’m Matt, by the way.”

I couldn’t stop smiling. He gestured as he spoke, his surprisingly long fingers moving aimlessly in the space surrounding him. It seemed he had a habit of tilting his head to the side, sometimes lowering his voice as if he were speaking only to himself. While he talked, the sun broke through the clouds again, this time highlighting his face. As his pupils contracted to small pinpoints of black, the blue around them almost seemed to intensify, the color clear and ringed with specks of golden-green.

It took me several seconds to realize that he had stopped talking and I felt a flush rise. He had a small smile on his face, the difference from his wide grin startling. The usual need to feel completely embarrassed and look awake didn’t hit me, though, and I continued to stare at him unabashedly. It was almost like I’d lost all control over my motor functions, my desire to keep recording details about his physical appearance overriding any sense of propriety. For instance, how damn long his eyelashes were. 

A moment or so passed before he let out a nervous giggle, his voice quiet and once again a complete opposite from the lilting quality it was before. “What?” 

I chuckled, mostly to myself. “I don’t know.” It was honest, despite the simplicity of the reply. I genuinely wasn’t sure. “I’m Dominic.”

He brightened at that, sticking his hand straight out. “Well, Dominic, you are definitely the quietest person I’ve met today.” As I shook his hand I couldn’t help but notice how smooth the skin there was. “I can’t decide if I find that creepy or intriguing.” 

“Let’s hope for the latter?” I let go of his hand, returning mine to my jeans’ pocket. “I think I want to see you again.” I surprised myself with my forwardness, my personality much more passive than that. It seemed to do the same for him, if the wideness of his eyes wasn’t enough of a clue. 

“I’m okay with that.”

My smile widened into the ridiculous, toothy grin I was cursed with having. I ducked my head for a moment, overwhelmed by the direction my day was going. I looked back up at him and nodded once, again for myself, as he let out another timid laugh. 

×××

I never believed that it was practicable for the breath to be taken out of my lungs at the mere sight of someone, or for my world to brighten a few shades at the mention of their name. I still don’t, in fact, but I can definitely understand how it might one day be possible. It’s not that I’m a cynic or against romanticism – admittedly quite the opposite – it’s just that I prefer to see things as they really are. Hearts break, words cut, and ultimately not everyone lives with a happily-ever-after. It’s notable how violent we as humans are, how passionate when it comes to love.

Yet, as I sit here against the wall in the furthest corner of my bed, staring at a ten by twelve inch painting of a pianist hard at work, the ink still fresh, I can sense the very core of my beliefs softening. 

I’ve been like this for the last two hours, ever since I got home from my third meeting with Matt. Well, I guess it could be called a date, what with the gratuitous flirting on his behalf and the incessant blushing on mine. I’m not familiar with casual, harmless banter. The kind that may or may not result in something more, be it physical or just a one-night thing. Honestly, I hate one-night stands. I’m the kind of person who would rather prefer to lie in bed in the morning, watch sunlight play across my partner’s hair. Maybe make breakfast and forget to eat it, and simply fall back into a tumble of sheets till noon. 

Matt is changing that, though, in the few weeks I’ve known him. I want him in that fluffy, bed-head and breakfast way. I want to know if the tiny bits of gold in his eyes gleamed in a post-coital glow. I want to know if he tastes like dark chocolate and sea salt, warm honey and stormy skies. I want to see a raindrop tremble on his lower lip as it threatens to fall onto the tip of my tongue. 

My phone vibrated abruptly twice, informing me of a new text message. It was laying on my lap between both my thighs, the sudden resonance helped guide my thoughts in the direction they were headed. I felt my body heat and my heart flutter simultaneously as I read the name that showed up on the screen, and yet I was confused. He really never texted me, claiming that he would prefer if I prompted the conversation since he was the one who put forth effort into phone calls and innuendo-laden remarks. To be fair, I wasn’t a big fan of texting. I much preferred hearing someone’s voice and being able to aurally judge vocal inflections. 

I swiped my thumb across the screen, his text popping up in an off-white bubble. 

Three simple words, that’s all they were; A subject, a verb, and a direct object. Enough to quicken my breathing and blur my vision to the point that I wondered if I’d actually gone blind from want of him. 

I read them again, stammering the words even in my thoughts. It was all I could do to keep myself from imagining him whispering them, hushed and quiet into my ear.

_I crave you._

×××

One thing I’ve noticed about Matt is how much he fidgets. He’s constantly moving some part of his body; his fingers, his feet, even his eyes. He’s always glancing around, looking for someone or something with a small frown like he doesn’t know who or what. He’s always touching something. Petting the shirts on a clothes rack as he walks by in the middle of Wal-Mart. Absentmindedly picking up a pencil on my desk and setting it back down, only to do it again seconds later. When we fuck, he’s always grasping my arms, my neck, my thighs, digging his thin fingers into my side to find purchase. 

He’s only calm when he sleeps. 

Right now, though, I don’t want calm. I want the eye to pass and the full force of his storm to rush over me, inside and underneath me. 

I allow myself another moment to let my eyes wander the curve of his spine, trace spirals around the twin depressions directly above the swell of his bum. His skin is smooth, flawless despite a random freckle or scar. The mattress hugs the form of his body and I envy it. I shift across the sheets until my chest is pressed to his shoulder blades, waking him when I nudge my erection against the back of his thigh. I coast my hand up his side until my palm rests on the dip and sharp angle of his hipbones, curling my fingers around to grip him, pressing him tight into me. 

Flexing my fingers while I hold him, I push my nose into the fringe at the back of his neck, breathing in the scent of dried sweat from when I took him against his bedroom door a few hours earlier. I can feel the heat of his flesh hardening only inches from my fingertips, and I stretch them a little further in taunt. His sharp hiss and the muffled groan into his arm when I brush against the taut skin make me snort, but I want him too much to fully laugh. He whispers out my name, his voice still rough from sleep and sex. 

My palm drags down his skin and I waste no time in grasping his cock, simultaneously grinding my own against his ass. Repeating my name, he stutters when I slide against his entrance, the majority of my erection slick with pre-come. After a few tugs he was bucking into my hand and I was panting against his shoulder. When it came to him, I was insatiable. It’d never been this way with anyone else, this never ending desire to become him. 

Before I could rush the word out, he was crawling across the mattress, his hand outstretched for the drawer in the side table next to the bed. The loss of his heat made me frown, but it didn’t last long, the promise of what was to come echoing in my head. I rolled onto my back, listening to the sound of wood scraping against wood and the scramble of contents. This was only the second time I’d been to his apartment, most of our meetings occurring in my house or in one of my classrooms after a lecture, the sound of student footsteps still audible. The first time he took me was in a Starbucks’ bathroom. It was unsanitary but amazingly convenient, and thankfully near closing time. 

I jumped when I felt him rolling the condom down the length of my cock. I lifted my hand, finding him perched on his knees in between both my legs and watching me. 

“I won’t ever tire of this,” he whispered, his voice heavy. I could feel the coldness of the lube through the latex as he slicked me up, his hand twisting on every down-stroke. “Seeing you like this, knowing you want me.” 

I take hold of his other hand where he has it resting at my hip. “I _need_ you. Now.” He nods twice, quickly, and I help pull him forward as he goes to straddle my waist. My cock still in his hand, he disregards preparing himself and positions me at that concentrated point of heat, my heart skipping a beat when I feel him give into me as he settles down. The tendons in his neck strain, his jaw clenched, and I don’t know if it’s from pain or pleasure. 

As if sensing my question he growls out, “Both. It’s fucking both.” 

Without giving me a chance to reply he pushes himself upwards and I marvel at the sight of the muscles in his thighs working, his pale skin reflecting the moonlight invading the window on the east wall. I almost choke at the sensation when he drops down, at how tight he is gripped around me. Without thinking, my free hand reaches for his, and I move both of his hands till they are planted on my chest. I hold them there as he lifts once again, bending his head downwards so I can meet him for a kiss. Our lips join messily, my mouth against his chin and his tongue tracing the bow of my upper lip. I start to thrust into him, meeting him at every fall. 

The push of our hips takes an erratic turn after a few moments, wordlessly understanding that we’re both not far from the edge. Breathy, whining gasps come from his mouth, his name becoming the only verse I know as I chant it over and over again. We lock eyes, his appearing pitch black in the darkness of the room, and the pure gratification I see there is enough to give me goosebumps. 

He arches away, bending until he’s leaning back with his nails digging into tops of my thighs. I buck twice into him, gathering from his sudden screams that I’d hit his prostrate. He came violently a breath and a half later, his release garnering my own, and I tossed my head back with a shout. Eyes squeezed shut, he collapsed against my chest as my hips continue to slowly rock into him on their own accord. 

We lay like that until it started to become uncomfortable, both of us grunting at our raw skin touching the other’s. I peeled off the condom, careful not to let it leak, and reached around his back to tie it into a knot before tossing it into the trash next to me. I returned to holding him, his cheek pressed against my shoulder and his breathing evening out.

I heard him murmuring gently before he fell back asleep that I was someone he could love one day. 

×××

“If this was anymore dense it’d collapse into itself.” The book slid across the table from where Matt pushed it, the abstract design on the cover reflecting the glow from the lamp next to him. 

“Shut up, Matt. I have to make myself like it otherwise I’ll never retain anything.” I strained forward, reaching for the book that he’d snatched from my hands but missing it by an inch. The position I was in restricted much movement and I fell back into my chair. I glared at him as he batted his eyelashes at me, his legs crossed at the ankle across my lap and pinning me to my seat. 

“But darling one, you do realize you’re ever-so intelligent. You need not read such dark a subject…it’ll…it’ll change you.” He sniffed dramatically, bending his head downward and glancing up under lowered eyelashes and arched eyebrows. 

“Fuck you,” I couldn’t help but laugh, his expression bordering ridiculous. “You’re right, though. This book was made by Satan.” I let my head fall and hit the back of my chair.

“I think if Satan wrote a book, it’d be far more entertaining and scandalous. More _L.A. Noire_ and less _The Brothers Karamazov._ ” He rubbed his eye as he spoke, pinching his nose and snuffling. “I fucking hate colds.” 

“Hey, just because you had a hard time with Russian nihilism doesn’t mean you have to hate on a literary classic.”

Rolling his eyes, he lifted his legs from my lap and sat up straight, perpendicularly facing me. “Well, everyone is entitled their own opinion. Yours just happens to be wrong.” 

I smiled despite myself, leaning towards him and placing a kiss on his cheek. “C’mon, let’s go. My place or yours?” I stood up and stretched, my back popping in the process. 

He looked up at me, his eyes wide and clear. I combed my fingers through his hair which had grown longer and fluffier in the near-three months I’ve known him. He sighed, a soft smile hinting at the corners of his mouth, and pressed into my palm at the side of his face. “I don’t care.”

“Let’s stop by the store and pick up some stuff so I can make you soup and just see where we go from there, yeah?”

“Why are you going to make me soup?” I could swear there was a hint of petulant independence in his voice.

“Cos you have a fever, babe.” I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped at the way his face fell when I answered him. 

“Oh.” He sighed, his shoulders lax. “Wanna pick up a movie, too?”

My smile widened and I nodded. “Your choice. C’mon, I’m in desperate need for some intense cuddling tonight.”

He rolled his eyes again, standing up abruptly. He was close enough to me that he only had to move an inch to lean his head against my shoulder. “You’re disgustingly sentimental.”

“And you’ve obviously not looked into the mirror recently.”

Winking, I stepped away from him, grabbing his hands with mine and pulling. He pretended to ignore me as we walked out of the library, and I tried to stifle my smile when he reached to hold my hand. 

×××

I’ve never fully comprehended just how innocent children are, how completely ignorant they are of certain things. Just a bit ago, while looking outside the window in Matt’s room, a trio of kids were playing at a small park. Despite the lack in detail, I watched as one of the two boys walked up to a dog that had been scampering around. Trying to pet the dog, the boy fell back as it jumped at him. An adult – a parent, I assume – darted from the bench she sat at and ran over. From what I gathered, the boy was fine, just frightened. 

Or maybe I’m just confusing innocence with stupidity. 

I glanced away from the window and the black SUV pulling out of the tiny parking lot, the sound of the door opening earning my attention. Matt stood in the threshold, a look of concentration on his face as he flipped through the mail he’d left to retrieve. I closed the book I was reading, dog-earing the page I was on, and sat it on my lap.

I guess he felt my stare when he absently muttered, “Hey,” without looking up. 

“You okay there, Bells?” 

He slowly tilted his head to the side, one side of his partly-open mouth rising. “That’s a new one, Howard.”

“Gotta keep you on your toes and all.” I held back a yawn, watching as he tore open an envelope and started reading with barely expressed interest. “Do you have a fucking dragon on your shirt?” Sure as all hell a purple, cartoonish dragon curled around a shot glass across his chest, a dopey smile on its face and the word “puff” on the glass. 

“Damn straight I do. Are we together?” His question was abrupt and out-of-place, taking me completely off guard. After receiving no reply, he finally looked up and met my eyes, his expression of concentration unchanged. 

“Well, technically yes, we’re together right now.” 

“No, you ass, are we a relationship? Like, dating and shit?” He suddenly looked really nervous, his fingers starting to twitch as they held the rest of the mail. He pushed himself away from the doorframe and walked into the room, setting all the papers and ads on his desk except for one folded letter in his hand that he kept glancing at. 

“I…don’t know. I mean, I guess we are. I never pay much attention to labeling. I’m fine with being your consensual sex slave, if you’d like.” Matthew rolled his eyes at me over his shoulder before turning and leaning against the desk. 

“So we’re together.”

“Seems like the general consensus. Why do you ask?” 

He shrugged, staring at the letter, his foot starting to tap a frantic rhythm. He mumbled something that sounded like his brother asked about us. This, frankly, only served to further catch me off guard as he never spoke of his family. 

“I didn’t know you had a brother.” I dared to comment, noting that his shoulders visibly tensed and his foot stilled. This only lasted a few seconds, though, before the tapping resumed and his shoulders relaxed a little. 

“Yep. Paul.” 

“So how-”

“Dominic, look.” He startled me with his interruption, my full name rarely coming from his mouth. “We’ve had a good day – a great one, in fact. I don’t want to ruin it by bringing back old memories.” He turned and tossed the letter onto the desk with the rest of the mail and walked out of the room. From my seat I could see him walk into his kitchen. I rubbed my palm against my forehead and sighed, taken aback by his sudden, defensive manner. I wanted to respect whatever was bothering him despite my curiosity so I decided to leave it alone. 

Standing up, I set my book back down on the chair and went to the kitchen. His back was facing me, his arms reaching up and trying to get the blender off the top of the refrigerator. I held back a snicker at the sight, opting instead to sidle up behind him and sling my arms loosely around his waist. Nuzzling the back of his neck, I breathed in his scent as his arms dropped and he relaxed back into me. 

“Why is there a stack of my clothes folded on your dresser?” 

My genuine question got me a nervous chuckle and he turned in my arms. He brought his hands to my chest and played with the collar of my shirt. “I’ve been kidnapping your clothes the last few times I’ve been to your place.”

I smiled, my brows furrowing. “Do you smell them every night too?” His eyes flickered up at me from under his eyelashes for a second, darkly glaring. “Seriously though, why? Do you want me to move in or something?”

The question was daring, what with his seemingly sensitive mood at the time, but I’m curious so what else can I say. 

My forwardness in asking made him jerk a little in my arms and his fingers continued to busy themselves with buttoning and unbuttoning my shirt. “I’m not opposed to the idea.” His voice was quiet. 

I stared at him for a few moments, his eyes avoiding my gaze. “I’m not against the thought of moving in either, Matt. But we’ve only been ‘together’ for not even five months. I’ve only ever been with one other person for that long of time, and we weren’t nearly as close as you and I are. I just don’t want to rush into something if we’re not equally on the same page.”

“Well, yeah, I know. But Dom, you’re here pretty much every day now that you’ve graduated. It wouldn’t be that much of a change if you had your own clothes drawer. I mean, fuck, you already have your own set of bathroom shit and don’t you even try to tell me that you found it all under the sink.” He looked up at me then, his eyes alone daring a rebuttal. 

I moved my hands, resting them on his hips and pushing him gently away from me so I could better look at him. He was right, in all honesty. I’ve slowly infiltrated his bathroom the last month and he never asked, just let it happen. While we did frequent my house, his apartment felt more like a home. I’d never felt this comfortable with a person before and it scared me, but with him I wanted to try. 

Brushing fringe out of his face, I noticed how my touch softened his expression a little. I traced the outline of his bottom lip, his eyes darting around my face look for a clue as to what I’d say next. His hands stilled at my collar and it was as if all that extra energy he had inside was being channeled through his stare. 

“Okay,” I finally replied, his eyebrows rising comically high. “It won’t hurt to, will it?” 

He shook his head, a beaming grin spreading across his face now, bringing out his dimple. His eyes were simply radiant. “Good. Good, this is a good thing.”

I giggled, pulling him back to me and kissing him. “Yes it is.” 

×××

“ _Fuck!_ ” Matt shouted into my shoulder, finding his release seconds after me. His hips were still slowly thrusting into me and I shuddered, my nerves oversensitive and raw. Kissing the sweat from the back of my neck and trailing down between my shoulder blades, he eased out of me. I could feel his body shaking, weakened now by the force of his orgasm. He collapsed at my side, his arm draped loosely over my waist, and I struggled to lift and turn my head towards him. 

“Good Christ, Matt,” my throat was sore from strain, “got a lot of pent up frustration or something?” I was never that vocal during sex but Matt had been relentless, slamming into my prostrate until I was hoarse, hands clawing into the mattress and fingers bruised from the pressure. 

He lazily raised a shoulder before dropping it. “Something,” came his muffled reply, his eyes half-open. 

“What were you doing up so late?” I’d almost forgotten. He’d woken me at nearly 4 A.M., still dressed in his jeans and white shirt, before making his interest clear and pretty much drilling me into the bed. 

“Dunno. I couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged again, trying and failing to hold back a yawn. He rolled onto his side and curled into a small ball, half on his pillow and half on mine. “I haven’t been able to lately but then again I don’t sleep much anyway.”

He was right. The more we’ve slept in the same bed the more I’ve noticed how little he actually sleeps. Some nights it won’t be till three, others dawn, but sometimes he’s perfectly fine and would be snoring before midnight. I’d initially chalked it up to his extreme hyperactivity, but the past two weeks I rarely saw him sleeping unless it was after we’d fucked. Now, I honestly didn’t know what to make of it. Every time I’d mention it to him he’d change the subject and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some plaguing his mind. Automatically, of course, I assumed it was because of our new living arrangements and he was just stressed, but I couldn’t think of any reason for him to be. We had our own unspoken roles in the kitchen or with little chores and we didn’t go about them begrudgingly, but instead like we genuinely loved doing them. When we were in cooking dinner we would move around each other as if we’d been doing it for years. I was quickly becoming well-acquainted with his apartment more than I ever was with my house. Still, I was scared that the decision for me to move in may have been too hurried.

“I’m beginning to worry, Matt. You have perpetual bags under your eyes.” I stroked his cheekbone with the pad of my thumb. “You work them, but they’re bags nonetheless.” 

I felt him smile and the rumble in his throat when he hummed, his eyes closing. “I’ll worry about it in the morning.” He muttered quietly, scooting closer until he fit into the curve of my body. 

“Promise me you’ll go to the doctor if it gets worse?” I rolled onto my side as well, wrapping my arms around him after pulling the sheets up. “I’ll fucking force you.”

He snorted softly, his head tucked beneath mine, as his breathing began to even out and slow. 

We fell asleep like that. I was barely conscious when he woke sometime a few hours later, slipping out of the bed, his footsteps soft on the carpet of his floor. 

×××

“He prescribed me something called Lorazepam.” Matthew all but spat the words out. I knew him well enough to spare him the rant that’d follow my question of why medication upset him so much. His mother was a pill-popper after the accident that left her permanently resigned to wheel her way through life, and having spent a decade and a half of his life watching her slowly fall apart at the seams, witnessing her sanity fray at the edges, was enough to keep him as far away from drugs of any sort as he could be. Not to mention a drunken father screaming slurs until he was blue in the face.

“Matt, it’s just for a month. Three milligrams a night, that’s all. And it’s not even a pill – it’s oral concentrate.” My attempts to reason with him were useless, though. His glare kept me from continuing and I threw my hands up in resignation. I whispered an apology as I sidled by him, dropping my keys on the kitchen power and withdrawing to his bedroom. 

Our bedroom, I guess. I haven’t gotten completely used to the transition from _mine and his_ to _ours_. He jumped on the chance immediately, my clothes the only things he would distinguish from his simply because “I dressed straighter.” 

If I’m honest, my reason for the difficulty in switching pronouns resides in the simple fact we’re moving too fast. At least, that’s how I feel. The glimmer in his eye fades at every reference to this apartment as his instead of “our home,” and I hate it, but I can’t help the thought that we’re moving in fast forward while the world around us halts. My worry towards it is preventing me from revealing how I feel because while I love the fuck out of him, I know he’d assume I never cared for him at all. His fragility is what holds me back and I can’t decide if I’ll ever overcome this. 

I heard his footsteps approach the room where I sat by the window and I felt him stare at me. His hesitation was almost palpable. I turned around, certain he was regretting his anger, and the image of him with his shoulders curved inwards as he leaned against the doorjamb greeted me. 

“Matt, babe, I get that you’re not happy with this. I do. But just…You literally never sleep anymore. I’m worried as fuck about you, okay?” I walked towards him, my hands outstretched. “Promise me you’ll take the meds.” Grasping his shoulders, he finally raised his face to meet mine. His eyebrows were slightly scrunched together and he was biting the corner of his bottom lip. 

Matt let out a sigh I didn’t realize he was holding and he relaxed under my palms, his shoulders falling even more in defeat. “Fine.” His voice was all but petulant. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no harm, no foul, yeah?” I smiled gently, pulling him into me. He buried is face into the crook of my neck. 

“Yeah.”

×××

“What the… Matt?”

There are days where I come back to our apartment and find Matt folding laundry or absent, away at one of his odd-ball jobs that somehow pay the rent. And then there are days when I come back to our apartment only to find a bread pan with snow compactly mashed into it, awkwardly shaped snow-bricks forming an attempt at an igloo. And of course, Matt’s head is peaking out at the top, his cockatoo hair bobbing every few seconds. The moment I spoke he jumped up as if caught red-handed.

“Aw shit, you weren’t supposed to be home yet.” My confusion ceased at the sight of his pout, a look of genuine dismay upon his face. Before I had time to process what he’d said, he interrupted my thoughts with a quick, bright smile, his nose pink and gloveless hands running through his hair. “Welp, that’s shit. As you can see, I was building an igloo,” he held up a hand before I could remark, an eyebrow quirked, “and it’s a goddamn good igloo, but I was going to hide in it.”

“And what, jump out and scare me?” I started chuckling, the crunch of snow under my boots harmonizing the soft moan of the wind. I grinned at his nod. “How were you gonna get out of it? You, like, built yourself in.”

Matt stared at me for half a beat before slowly glancing downwards with wide eyes. His jaw dropped slightly as he noticed that he was, indeed, standing in the middle of a four foot igloo whose only exit was through the top. I couldn’t help but to burst out laughing.

Walking the rest of the distance towards him, I leaned over the wall of crude snow-bricks and pecked him on the cheek, his disbelief practically tangible. I loved him like this, all carefree and happy. It’d been two weeks since he started the medication and I could already tell a significant improvement. He was on his ass the first few days, lethargic and continuously yawning. But, come the end of the week, he was suddenly full of energy. The bags under his eyes disappeared and I was able to fall asleep with him in my arms and wake up with him in the same position. I was becoming addicted to his newfound cure and I worried what would happen when the time came to stop the doses.

“I fucking hate igloos.” He stared at me, his clear eyes reflecting the overcast sky above us.

“You poor soul. C’mon inside and I’ll warm you up, yeah?”

He sucked his lips in, the corners of his mouth pursed as he restrained a smile. “The uh, heater won’t come on.”

“God _dammit_ , Matthew James.”

×××

Arching, my back popped rhythmically, the cracks trailing from between my shoulder blades to the base of my spine. I stretched my arms above my hand, unable to withhold the yawn that escaped in a blast. "Fuuuuck me, I haven't slept that hard in a damn long time." My voice was rough from no use, and I yawned again before falling back onto my side and rolling to face Matt. "Hey."

His eyes were open but trained at a point somewhere in the space between us. Right away I noticed the reappearance of darkness under his eyes, the skin there ashy grey. My heart gave a nervous stammer.

"Matt?" His eyes flickered up to meet mine and I knew the answer before I even asked it. "You get any sleep last night?" He shook his head as best he could with the side of his face pressed into the mattress. "When'd you stop taking the meds?"

He cleared his throat. "Haven’t yet."

"Shouldn't they like...I dunno, help you long term?"

"Guess my problem's a bit more complicated than that."

"You don't have a problem."

He snorted. “Dom, I have a sleep disorder. I’d say that’s a problem. Besides, the doc said rebound insomnia was a possibility.” Stifling a yawn, he attempted a shrug. “Didn’t think it’d be this bad though.” 

“He also said not to continue taking them past four weeks, so this could be the result of that, yeah? D’you want me to call him? I’ll call him.” I started to sit up, looking for my phone. Before I could push off from the bed Matt’s hand grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me back. 

“God, Dom, don’t. It’s fine, okay. I’m fine.” He all but rolled his eyes, opting instead to drop my wrist and roll onto his stomach. His voice was barely audible as he spoke. “Just stop worrying so fucking much, it’s not like I’m going to die or anything.” 

I sat, staring at him. Frankly, I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help him, but I didn’t want to go behind his back and piss him off. I felt helpless and I hated it. He’d been great the last few weeks, almost to the point his energy was tiring. But he was happy so I was okay, and now I’m lost. 

“Alright.” I dropped to my side, watching him and waiting.

×××

Red streamed in rivulets down the white porcelain sink, mixing in a pool with the water already flowing into the drain. The faucet was turned all the way, the rush echoing in the small bathroom. I went for the bar of soap again, trying for a third attempt to wash my hands, my fingertips stained red. 

“Tell me again why you wanted to dye your hair?” I huffed mainly to myself, scrubbing in vain at my cuticles in the hope they’d change from the ostentatious fire-engine red. “I mean seriously, what the fuck kinda box _doesn’t_ come with gloves?” 

Matt continued cackling where he sat cross-legged in the tub. He was completely naked except for the drips of dye running from his head down his neck and chest, his hair sticking up in all directions. “Look, I threw the directions away. How was I supposed to know there were gloves on there?” He kept laughing, the pitch reaching a glass-breaking zone. 

“Oh, I dunno, because _they were the only fucking things reflecting the light?_ ” I couldn’t help but laugh myself and shook my head in disbelief. “Like, dude, I look like I fucking ripped out a cow’s insides for some blood sacrifice.”

“What the f-” Matt cut himself off, throwing his head back with a snort and smearing a stain of red across the tile behind his head. 

“Do we need to go dance around a fire now? Howl at the moon?” I noticed a handful of red splatters on my t-shirt in my peripheral and cursed. “Setting your hair alight better be part of the fuckin’ sacrifice.” I pulled my shirt off over my head and tossed it into Matt’s heap. 

His giggling lessened, a wide smile greeting me. “Are you gonna punish me?”

“Just imagining how you’re gonna look even more sexy with your hair all like that.” I grinned back at him, shaking my head again and running a hand through my hair. I sat on the toilet and crossed my feet on the edge of the tub. Matt leaned his head back against the wall, looking at me from under lowered eyelids with a soft smile on his face. His skin was a stark contrast from the red and goddamn if it wasn’t hot. “When’d you wanna go to Chris’s?” 

He scrunched his eyebrows together in what seemed like confusion, a frown replacing his smile. “What?”

I paused. “We were going to see Chris and his girl tonight for dinner. Figured it was time you met my best friend, remember? Though it’s his fault he’s been abroad…” I muttered the last bit to myself. 

“Yeah, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He started to bite the corner of his thumbnail. 

I hesitated before answering again. “We talked about it this morning, Matt.”

“Hey, I’m not denying you mentioned it. I just don’t remember ever talking about it.”

“Matt-”

“There’s really nothing else to it.” He averted his eyes from mine, his jaw clenching as he brought his legs together. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he glanced at me sideways. 

“This is the fourth time you’ve forgotten a conversation – hell probably more than that – in the last couple days. I’d say that’s probably pretty damn important.” I tapped my thumb against my left forearm and sucked on my upper lip.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was a smidgen louder than before and it caught me off guard, my eyes wide now. “I comprehend that, Dominic. Just stop fucking worrying. I’ll come to you if I need help, okay.” 

I stared at him for a few moments, unable to break eye contact. I quite honestly had no response. I was right, he had forgotten a lot of conversations, and, frankly, I’ve not the slightest idea why. 

“Just get out, Dom; I can do the rest myself.” He looked away and I felt a breath I didn’t know I was holding leave me. 

I watched him for a beat longer before standing up and silently walking out. 

×××

It was nice outside. Nice in the sense that the sun still managed to escape through a handful of jagged, gaping holes in the otherwise overcast sky. It was windy, but not unmanageably so. The temperature was cool, but the kind of cool that comes in the moments after a thunderstorm, the air still rigged with the electric current of lightning strikes. Nonetheless, it was nice. 

It hadn’t been like this in awhile. It was rare for this part of the state to go longer than twelve hours without rainfall or snow at this time of the year. To be honest, I missed the burning heat of summer and the crackle of decaying leaves underfoot as the trees shed their foliage in preparation of another winter. But days like that rarely happened here. The weather was usually static. 

For a moment, I swear I saw the hint of a rainbow peaking out over the horizon. 

In another moment, my mood shifted into something more akin to conflicted. 

I swiped my thumb across the screen of my cell, the preview of Matt’s text already cause for concern. Concern. That’s all he seemed to be nowadays. Over the last couple weeks, Matthew’s issue with remembering has increased to a place I _know_ is unhealthy. I also know he recognizes that something should be done about it, that we should be working together to fix him, but every time I try to bring it up to him he snaps. Shuts off. Yells or ignores, swears he doesn’t need fixing. What he doesn’t realize is that this relationship, this tug-and-pull of us and those delicate words dancing atop a fluttering tongue, prison-bar teeth preventing escape – all of that is being threatened. By him. By his stubborn unwillingness to let someone help him. By me and incapability to do what’s right and take him with necessary force to the hospital. Because I know, god I know it like a saint knows religion, I know that this is bad. That there’s something more behind his memory lapses. 

So I swipe my thumb and I’m not surprised when I read his oblivious words:

_“When are you coming back? It’s lonely here without you :( ”_

What scares me is that I came home yesterday morning, back from Nova Scotia for a three day visit with my family. I came home nearly twenty-four hours ago and the first person I saw was Matt, his eyes almost grey and his face ashen, his cheekbones more prominent than they’d ever been. I came home and he hugged me. I cooked dinner and we ate and he averted my eyes the entirety of the meal. After, while we lay in bed, he rolled away from me, hugging himself and shaking, jerking violently every time I tried to touch him. He wouldn’t respond to me so I fell asleep, at a loss for anything else. When I woke this morning, he was sitting next to the window in my usual spot and mentioned having a picnic after it rained. 

What terrifies me is that I text him back, telling him I just arrived in town, that I’ll be there within the hour. 

I push myself off the bench, leaving behind the two paper bags full of sandwiches and wine and fruit. I catch a glimpse of myself in a large puddle, the water gathered there clear despite the dirty concrete of the sidewalk. I hesitate when I make contact with my own eyes. I don’t recognize the person there anymore; this hopeless excuse of a man who can’t (won’t?) save the one person who’s made his life worthwhile. 

I step in the puddle, ignorant of the ripples distorting me. 

×××

It’s been three days since the last time we spoke. That was when I’d come back to our apartment, back to where it’d been “lonely without me.” He never even looked my way. 

It’s a ghost house, living here now. We’ve gone about our routines, but the zest, the happiness we had circling about each other in the kitchen, it’s disappeared. In the three days since I came home from the park I’ve gone to work and come back, gone to work and come back, slept. Matt? He’s stopped his oddball jobs. He’s stopped walking Mrs. Davidson’s dogs from next door. He’s stopped just about everything other than walking around the apartment and sketching tic marks on the walls. He eats when I eat. I know he doesn’t sleep, and it’s either carelessness or the fact I’m frightened of him that I don’t tell him to. 

This symbiotic parasite he’s turned into is sucking the life from me and this morning I found myself wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling, barely conscious of the body sitting beside me with a Sudoku book in front of him. 

I think its why, on the third day and several hours later, I throw my half-eaten lunch into the trash and turn to look at him. I know he’s there; my skin prickles when I sense his presence, and I can’t tell if it’s from disgust or the knowledge his eyes are on me even when he’s turned. 

But this time he’s not turned. This time, this time he’s leaning against the jamb of the archway that leads into the kitchen and dining room. His narrow shoulders are curved inwards, the shirt hanging from his frame I recognize as the one he wore the first day I met him. If I felt like it, I would have laughed at the irony of the dirtied yellow, the brash L-I-F-E glaring at me with its broken letters. He doesn’t look at me, instead stares a hole into his bare feet. Scruff darkens his jaw, reminding me how long it’s been since I last saw him shave. 

He looks nervous. He acts like he’s got something to say but doesn’t know if he should, that subtle, ever-so-faint bobbing motion visible as one of his legs bounce. I keep staring at him until I feel my legs start to ache from standing so long. I think, after a moment, it’s his evading that finally breaks me. 

And I do. I snap.

“What the fuck do you want, Matt?” The words escape sharper than I intended, but then I think maybe I meant for them to be harsh, vitriolic and scathing. 

I catch him off guard. His body flinches into the wall.

Several breaths later I think that, for a moment, I might hate him. 

It’s funny how, when you become so overwhelmed by a singular emotion, it can almost turn into an out-of-body experience. 

I sense more than know I’m walking towards him, and suddenly I’m watching myself grip him by the shoulders and give a shake. I’m in his face, spitting the words out without fully comprehending what I’m saying. All I know is how he reacts with nothing but a dazed whimper and how scared and angry I am at him, at myself. 

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you! Matt, do you even hear me? _MATT!_ ” I’m shouting at him, my throat hurting at the sudden abuse, and I know he hears me but I don’t know if he’s listening. But I know I continue yelling, waiting for him to reply, to acknowledge that he hears me, that he’s sorry but he doesn’t know why. For a second I wonder if I should stop but I keep shaking him and he keeps _being_ , his head nodding rapidly in succession with each push and pull. 

I think I hear him, asking me, possibly begging me to stop, but his voice is weak. I can’t hear him over the hush of my hands falling down his arms and encircling his wrists. I can’t hear him when he starts to shout at near-equal volume, his words unintelligible. I can’t hear him when I notice tears have started to drop from the tip of his nose. I sure as hell don’t want to hear him when I slam his body into the wall right of the archway, his arms pinned on either side of his head. It’s that second when he looks up and it’s the most emotion I’ve seen in his eyes for months. 

They’re Poseidon’s own anger unleashed, his fury and his anguish and his terror all colliding into one as the blue whirlpools into the expanded black of his pupils. They’re enough to shut me the fuck up and hear him whispering, chanting for me to stop, that he’s sorry. 

I have him pinned there and I find myself whispering, asking, “Who are you, Matt?” My voice cracks on every syllable. “Where’d you go?”

He’s still pinned against the wall and he’s too weak to resist and it’s a testament to how far he’s fallen; we used to be of equal strength. 

I’m standing there letting my weight push me into him, and I’m stuck in his eyes. And I just want to leave them but I am _so_ overwhelmed by the entirety of the situation, and I kiss him. 

I can’t remember the last intimate contact outside of a hug we’ve had, and I don’t know why I think it’s great timing to kiss him, but I do. I devour him; I breathe the remainder of his essence into me in exchange for my own. Matt doesn’t react. He just hangs there, pressed against the wall and is too powerless to resist, though after a bit he returns it. It’s debilitated, but he kisses back. Matt’s hands clench my wrists and his grip is barely there but he’s grabbing onto me and pulling me closer, sucking me back in like the black hole he’s become. 

I don’t know how it happened but we ended up in our bed and I was tearing our clothes off, Matthew lying there and watching. His stare started to turn blank and when I went to grab the hem of his pants he shook his head, batting my hands away. I ignored him, my strength overpowering his.

“No, Matt. Right now I need this. It’s my turn to be selfish.”

Somewhere along the way I ended up in just my boxers and was hurriedly working to get Matt in the same position. I sneak my fingers up his sides, my palms running lightly against his skin. My thumbs hook on the material when they reach the hem and I drag his shirt up. He was silent, breaths rapidly panting out, his eyes trained on the ceiling. He allows me to tug it fully off and I drop immediately to his chest, licking down a line to his abdomen. I press kisses against his belly and I could feel his stomach muscles fluttering beneath my lips. Rubbing my thumbs in circles on his jutting hipbones, I can all but taste the heat radiating from below my chin. 

And so I meet it. 

His voice is ragged as he cries and I mouth at his erection, the cotton of his briefs wetting from the moisture of my tongue pressing against him. He jerks slightly and I answer with the gentlest nip. 

I don’t linger long, opting instead to kiss at the softness of his inner thighs that spread for me at touch. I can feel goosebumps rise along his skin when I trail my hands and it’s another texture I notice that makes me first hesitate. But my logical brain is lust-ridden so I lick and I lathe and I do everything in my power to climb inside of him with the force of my need alone. Then I trace over a rapid-fire spattering of spots leading from his inner thigh to inner knee. I hesitate long enough for him to let out a keening whine. I hesitate, shocked by what seem to be puncture marks, some scarred and some fresh. 

I glance to where my right hand is, clenching his upper leg, and I notice the texture I felt moments before. It’s another collection of the holes and I pull back to notice they adorn the majority of his upper, inner, outer legs. 

At first, I tell myself I’ve never noticed them before. But then I realize without pause that I have every inch of his body memorized twice over.

My heart constricts at the second option. 

But I don’t want to be presumptuous and I know he’s staring at me, I can feel the uncomfortable tingle along my spine. But I don’t want to freak him. So, calmly, I look up at him. Calmly, I meet his gaze and I’m immediately chilled by the deadness in his eyes. Calmly, I ask, “Matthew…Why do you have p-puncture marks dotting your legs?”

When a hurricane hits the coast, those people, those brave, courageous, dumb-as-ever-living-shit people who believe they can outride the storm expect it all but one thing: the force. They expect the rain and the wind and the debris and the fright. But they don’t expect the intensity, the pure, physical energy. They underestimate it completely, and it’s then they experience true fear. 

Well, that’s a lot like this.

It takes three seconds for his entire demeanor to change, to flip 180 degrees. His face contorts into one of disgust and anger, his eyes flat and dark. His face, neck, and chest flush pink. Pushing himself up and backwards, he jostles till his back is against the headboard, crouching with his hands out. His eyes go wide and he grabs a pillow, covering himself with it. 

“Get the fuck out, Dom! Get the _fuck_ out of here!” The words sting more than I thought, and I note how out of place they sound coming from his mouth. “Dom, I’m not messin’ around, get _out of my apartment!_ ” 

It’s not till he yells the fifth time that I jump where I stand, mind suddenly in full-focus as I grab my clothes from where they landed. He keeps screaming as I dress, and I leave almost robotically, grabbing my keys and jacket. 

I can still hear him as I walk away from the room, his shouts muffled but more akin to sobs. 

I almost forget where I parked my car as the last ten minutes catch up with me. Mindlessly, I get inside, turn the ignition and drive. 

I don’t realize where I’m going until I arrive outside of Chris’s house, his truck in the driveway. My mind stutters along, and I’m at his door, holding in the whole of me as I start to feel my reality collapse. Kelly, his girl, answers, and she’s smiling at me but it falls in seconds. 

Fade in: I’m on their kitchen floor and sobs echo the walls. I blearily notice Kelly standing to the side, her face worried, but the details are blurry and I can’t focus. Chris appears in my line of vision and I think I hear him tell me to drink. An amber liquid forces its way in front of me and I grasp that the cries are mine and my face is streaked with burning tears. I’m shaking as I reach for the glass. 

×××]>

I had always assumed that a rehabilitation center wouldn’t feature the sterile scent and whiteness of a hospital, but I figure it’s just my luck that the one Chris and I chose last night resembles a mental ward. 

After my breakdown the day previous, I told him everything. About Matt’s insomnia, about Matt’s medication, and especially about the injection site I found covering his legs. Once I had calmed down, we spent the remainder of the day researching Lorazepam, learning that if one abused the medication, anterograde amnesia was a possible and severe side effect. That night while I drank myself blind, we looked up places in the area that could help him, settling finally on one close to the city limits but that was highly recommended by several medical doctors. Chris called them, informing them of “a troubled friend.” 

I’m now waiting in line behind a lady and her teenage son, his skin an ashy shade resemblant of Matthew’s. I had warred with myself over whether or not I should do this behind his back, but Chris was there, my voice of reason. He reminded me continuously that I was the one who never called Matt’s doctor, never let someone else know how bad he seemed until the last moment. I couldn’t argue with that. I’d been selfish, lazy. 

The woman behind the desk cleared her throat, shaking me out of my thoughts and alerting me that it was my turn. She smiled at me softly as I closed the several feet between us and I tried to return it. The way she brought her eyebrows together told me she didn’t buy it. 

“Are you here to admit yourself?” Her voice was rougher than I expected and I wondered for a moment if she was a smoker. 

It took a few seconds before I could form my words together. “N-No, no. I called, well my friend called, last night. About my bo- another friend of mine has an…addiction. To Lorazepam.” 

Her expression changed immediately, her mouth open as if she’d said, “Oh!” Instead, she turned in her chair and rolled to a phone, quietly informing me that she had been told I’d come by. She pressed a couple buttons before putting the phone to her head, letting someone know “that one boy was here.” 

Once she received whatever reply she was waiting for, she turned and rolled back to me, an attempt at a pleasant smile on her face. “Sorry about that, dear. The one your…friend spoke to last night was Lucy. She’s on her way here right now.” 

I have a slow nod. “Okay.” 

An awkward minute passed before she gestured behind me. “If you don’t mind…" 

“Ah.” I sidled out of the way, allowing the man behind me to move forward. I stepped to the side and sat in a chair that was there, passing the time by counting the dust motes on the fake tree to my right. 

I made it to thirty-four when I heard heels clicking on the linoleum floor, but I didn’t look up till they were rooted before me. They were black, pointed at the front, and looked plastic. Fake, like the rest of this place. I lifted my head and the woman standing there was pretty, her hair loosely pinned in a bun at the base of her neck, dirty blonde and brown. She had hazel eyes that told me I could trust her, and a soft smile curving her red lips. Her clothes were white like the woman behind the desk. White and clean. 

“Hi there, I’m Lucy. Annette tells me you’re the one who called?” Lucy had a high-pitched voice which immediately detracted from her pleasant appearance. 

“Yea- no, my friend called for me.” She arched an eyebrow at that and I felt the need to rephrase. “I was…indisposed last night. My friend, Chris, he helped me find this place and spoke for me.” I stood up and reached out my hand. “I’m Dominic.” 

She shook it, nodding as I spoke. “I understand, Dominic. Now, your troubled friend?” 

I nodded, guilt once again seeping through me. “My uhm, my s-significant other? He uh, he had some pretty bad insomnia a few months back. Really severe. His doctor prescribed him Lorazepam,” both eyebrows rose at that, “for four weeks. He started doing well after the first week but once his prescription ran out he…I dunno, he started to revert. Sleep less, if at all. He stopped eating. His doctor said it was rebound insomnia taking place but Matt would never let me do anything. He refused any and all help.” I could feel tears start to prick at the corners of my eyes and I swallowed the lump that appeared in my throat. “I just- I jus-” 

She rested an unwanted hand on my shoulder and nodded, her face apologetic. She removed it when I tensed. “It’s alright, Dominic. It’s not your fault. Now, what made you search for a rehabilitation clinic?” 

I wiped a head down my face, aware of the eyes on me from those in line. “We uh, we got into an a-argument? Last night, I confronted him. And we ended up, uhm,” I felt my face heat and I heard her quietly mutter “Ah.” “I found injection scars, a lot of them were fresh though, on his legs. Like, completely covering his thighs and- and his outer legs, too. He fl-flipped, he flipped out on me and made me leave and that’s-” 

“That’s when you went to Chris? I understand. Well, addiction is common for some people. With your partner, Matt is his name?, with Matt, what I can best discern is that as he took the drug, his body became more and more accustomed to the chemical compounds that make it up. He continued to take it till his prescription was finished, and somehow he acquired more. He kept taking it because of the relief from his insomnia, but the more his body became used to it the faster his symptoms returned. From what I can tell, he got desperate. Was the original prescription an oral concentrate?” 

I nodded. “His dosage was, like, three milligrams a night? Enough for a full month. I don’t fuckin – oh, god, sorry – I don’t know where he found more. That’s why I assumed it was just his body withdrawing from it or something. I- I didn’t realize that…” I could feel the pressure rise up my throat, the muscles there clenching, and heat reached my face and stung at my nose as I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. I fell back down to the chair, my head in my hand, and she knelt before me. 

“Dominic, dear, it is _not_ your fault. If anything, you caught it at the perfect time, before it could damage his cerebral cortex anymore and turn into full-fledged amnesia. We can admit him today, okay? We’ll take care of him, get him back on his feet and back to you.” 

I stammered out an “okay” and tried to calm myself. 

It took half an hour to fill out all the necessary paperwork and for them to prepare a room for him. Lucy, who I think took massive pity on me, allowed me to check the room out and walk around the clinic. I felt more comfortable after my spontaneous tour and agreed with Lucy and the receptionist that it was a good idea to have a couple staff members follow me to his apartment in case he refused to come. 

While the receptionist was entering the last pages of information into the computer, my cell phone rang, the ringtone signaling it was Matthew. Lucy stood behind the receptionist, Annette, and glanced up from the screen. I caught her eye, mouthing Matthew’s name as I nervously answered. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi, baby.” His voice was cheerful and I was at once confused. 

“What’s up?” My voice was all but stuck in my throat. 

“I was wondering where you were. You weren’t here when I woke up.” I could hear the pout in his voice and I went cold when I comprehended what he said. 

I cursed to myself, Lucy’s eyebrows rising in what seemed to be her normal expression. “I, uh, I had an errand to run. I’ll be home soon.” 

“You okay?” 

I shut my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m great.” My voice cracked. “I just have shit to do, I guess.” 

“Oh okay. Well I’ll see you soon, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He said goodbye and hung up and I surprised myself by not breaking down again. 

××× 

The drive to Matt’s apartment felt longer than the twenty minutes it took, and the moment I pulled into the parking lot, the rehab center’s white SUV turning behind me, I felt my heart constrict. I stepped out of my car when they parked beside me, telling the man in the passenger seat to give me five minutes before they came up. I gave him the apartment number, turning on my heel and feeling every bit the broken man I was morphing into. 

I silently thanked Matt for choosing the bottom floor to live in as I don’t think I’d be able to climb a flight of stairs without changing my mind. 

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. It was quiet enough for me to hear Matthew’s footsteps pattering towards me from the direction of his room. With each step my nerves got worse, and within a few seconds he was standing a couple paces away, a small smile on his face. 

He looked terrible, like a ghost of himself. He was in sweatpants and one of my shirts, his hair damp. I took a second to turn my emotions off and braced myself for what was to come. 

His smile faltered a little when he saw my face and I could tell he was trying to not look confused. 

“Hey. I uh…I want to talk to you about last night. I’m sorry it went the way it did, but I’m…I l-love you, Matt, and I’m worried. And this is- this is the only way for you…to get better.” 

Matt took a small step towards me, his arms crossing over his shoulders and his smile gone. “What the fuck are you talking about, Dominic?” He cocked his head. “Did you just tell me you love me?” His voice was detached. That word sounded wrong coming from him. 

I shook my head a little at his ability to surprise me even though I know what’s happening to him. “Matt, I know about your addiction. Last night? You fucking…You don’t remember it, Matt, but I found out…about your addiction, about where you inject, about it all, okay? I know, now. And I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry I never got anyone’s help. But you need help, Matt. I see that now and I will forever hate myself for letting it go on this long. And of course I love you. I always have.” 

I could feel tears already brimming over and I walked slowly towards him, my hands up. He backed up, though, his eyebrows scrunched together in refusal to believe me. 

“No, no. I have no idea what you’re talking about, Dominic.” He shook his head rapidly, fringe falling in his eyes. 

“Matt…” I felt for a moment as if he were a cornered animal. “Matt, you’re getting amnesia. That’s why you’re forgetting everything. Your insomnia is a lot worse than anyone predicted, baby, and I’m s-” 

“NO!” He screamed at me, hitting my hands away when I tried to reach out for him. “You have _no_ idea what you’re fucking talking about.” 

I choked on a sob. “But Matt, I d-do. And I’m sorr-” 

“What the _fuck_ are you so sorry about, Dom?” He backed up till he hit the wall, biting his lip and still shaking his head. “Y’know what, I think this needs to stop, Dom. We’re too close, this is too much.” 

His voice was painfully unemotional as he spoke, but his words struck a chord in me and I couldn’t help but react. “W-wait, what? We’re too close? Of fucking course we’re close, Matt, we’ve been together for _almost a year_. What the fuck did you expect us to be?” I raised my hands again, closing my eyes as I spoke. “Look, Matt, I’m sorry. I’m done, and you need help. I can’t do this anymore. For my own sanity, I can’t do us anymore. And don’t you fucking think for one moment this isn’t _killing me_ saying this.” 

Maybe it was God playing around with irony or maybe it was just perfect timing, but as I opened my eyes and said those words, the two men from the rehab center opened the door and came in. 

Matt’s face went blank, his color draining more than I thought possible and I knew instantly when he read the embroidered _Oregon’s Finest Center for Rehabilitation_ on the front pocket of their shirts. His head slowly turned to look at me. 

“Dominic…” 

“I’m sorry, Matt.” 

I felt like I was watching a silent film play out before me as the two staff members walked towards him, words coming from their mouths but I couldn’t quite hear what they said. I stood to the side and I could feel fresh tears burning my skin as he looked at me, betrayal and disbelief staining his face. I watched as the taller of the two men grabbed him and I knew he was too weak to fight, but he resisted nonetheless. I watched him swivel his head towards me as he struggled, tears dropping one after another, his expression one of utter pain. He screamed at me, and it was only then that I heard as he swore his hatred, swore he never loved me. 

When the door shut all I could do was press my head against the coolness of the window pane and watch them drive away. 

××× 

I was drunk while I packed my clothes, thankful despite the haze in my mind that I didn’t bring everything over when I moved in. I grasped, belatedly, that drinking probably wasn’t the best of things to do, but it numbed me. The scene of him leaving played over and over in my head and alcoholism was that last thing for me to worry about. 

To say I hated myself would be an understatement and I dreaded going back to my house, to my isolation and silence. 

I tugged at the bottom sheet on the mattress, allowing myself his scent if anything at all. At least he’d be there with me in spirit. The corner got stuck and I pulled harder, my head lazily jerking back when a small baggy hit the ground. 

I stared at it for some time before I crumpled on the floor, crossing my legs and half-heartedly noticing it really fucking hurt my ass to fall like that. I reached for the baggy and knew that moment what it was. 

Glaring despite the fact it was a plastic bag, I opened it. Three syringes fell out and a bottle labeled “LORAZEPAM 3MG/1ML AMPOULES.” 

I leaned back as I picked it up, rotating the bottle in my hands. 

××× 

I sit in the corner of my room. It was quiet, as it usually was. Not much really happened, other than the fantasies I thought up to pass the time. 

Resting my head against the wall, I watch the fluorescent ceiling lights flicker. Shadows play on the white walls and on the white floor. People passed by the door in the opposite corner, their voices fading as I stared. 

Absentmindedly, I rub my thumb over the scars on the crease of my inner arm. They were always round. I don’t know why I keep expecting them to change. 

The voices came back to my door, higher this time. A woman appeared when it opened. Her lips were the color of cherries, her hair a graying mix of blonde and brunette. Her smile is fake when she says she was just checking on me. 

I rub my scars again, realizing the less I think about it the easier it is to forget. 


End file.
